


Next Time

by loverlyduck



Category: Game Grumps
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverlyduck/pseuds/loverlyduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The relentless realities of a cruel world and the kindness of those sworn to protect collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next Time

**Author's Note:**

> Please enjoy this! It was inspired by way too much game of thrones watching. Leave me some tasty feedback in the comments or at my tumblr loverlyduck. :)

"Lord Kramer!" The loud boom of the door made The Lord in question cringe. The old wooden plank swings open with a cacophony of sound. It takes almost all his will power to not cover his ears. He learned long ago that showing any weakness only hurts him here. 

He's lived in this castle all his life but he's never felt like he belonged, especially after his brother got married to some nameless girl and took over the place. The grey stone walls look even more grey every passing day. The moss grows slowly between the cracks and threatens to over take his person while he sleeps. 

His quarters are located as far away from his family as possible--not by his choice mind you, it's simply a matter of circumstance. The library is on the west side of the castle, but his family lives on the east. His family found it appropriate to "house him with his wife"--the books he "loves so much." And he can't lie, he does love books more than his own family, but sunlight was a luxury he never thought he'd miss. The sun never hits the west side, blocked completely by too high castle walls and too many trees. The Kramer's rule a lush land of beauty and rich farm lands. When he does get outside it's a rather refreshing view. But reality is bleak and it's not too long before he is ushered back in to his place. Being the youngest was never easy, but as he gets older it only gets harder. 

He was born with a weak heart. Coming out of the womb it's said he cried for four days and four nights until he finally slept. In those four days he cried all of the sadness out of his soul and his heart suffered. He doesn't believe that at all as he still feels sadness, but every once in a while his chest will seize and he has to stop and pray to the Gods that this day may not be that day. 

Having a weak heart means he cannot fight. Lifting up a wooden sword winds him--how is he expected to defend himself? The blood in his veins churns with effort and he can hardly hit his opponent, let alone defeat him. If he cannot be a man in arms, what kind of man is he left to be? A scholar? Surely reading books will lead him to greatness. 

However, he's never found himself very intelligent. Most of his life is spent talking to no one, so when he is called to speak it's hardly any prophecy or poetry that comes out. It's mostly rambles and nerves sliding off of his tongue like a slab of meat off a cart. No, he imagines he'll never be the prodigy he's expected to be.

So here he stays with the vines and the mildew of the western wing, passing his days reading of knights and kings--eating when told and hiding his face from a cruel unjust world. That is, until days like this day happen upon him, and the world comes knocking on his door. 

"Lord Kramer, I ask your attention if it pleases you." The knight says lazily, almost not caring if it pleases him or not. He turns and nods at the knight, prompting him to continue. The knight sighs, "Well I'll just talk for you then. The king and queen have asked for your attendance at their feast tonight. They are to announce that the queen is with child. I request you bathe. And dress well... You know, normal things." The knight flourishing his hands as bit as if to emphasize his point. He then scoffs at his silent response, does the most shallowest of bows and leaves as quickly and loudly as he came, splintering the door on his way out. 

He sits for a moment, contemplating the seriousness of what he had just heard. Not only has his brother produced an offspring, but he wants him there when they announce? He puts a small crows feather in to his book to hold his place and closes it gently. Taking up a quill he dabs it neatly in ink and begins writing on parchment. 

"The good and the evil of attending tonight's feast." It reads across the top. He stops to dip his quill once more. "Good: food, light, music, people, family, dancing?" He can't help but put a question mark next to the last one. He doubts he'll have the courage to ask a lady to dance. He slightly cringes at the thought. The ladies of the court have never interested him. Their fascination with marriage, children and power too boring for him to care. His brother told him once of women outside the court, with want and ambition, but even then he had just shrugged his shoulders and continued to pluck blades of grass off of the hillside.

The next line reads, "Evil: women, ridicule, family." Sadly he cannot help but put family in both lines. He frowns at the word wondering it's meaning. But after seeing the goods outweigh the evils in sheer numbers, he decides a good scrubbing is in order. 

His bath isn't far from his room and he quickly slips in before a handmaiden sees him. The last thing he wants is help. The water is drawn already for him and is freshly warm. He slowly peels off his underclothes and immerses himself. It overtakes his body quickly and soon he's up to his nose in delicious rose water. He relaxes in to the smooth tub, feeling the coolness of metal against his back. The window next to him overlooks the courtyard and just a sliver of light comes in; landing neatly across his chest. He smiles at the light and moves his fingers through it, dazzled by the illuminated drops of moisture. 

Everything is perfect until he hears a sharp whinnying noise from the outside. He sits up casually to peak in to the courtyard. There a horse is rearing after throwing a Lady--a guest of his brothers feast no doubt--and said horse is now gallivanting around the yard. He watches as he prances through fruit stalls and stables and he can't help but laugh at the silliness of it all. A knight comes in through the gate not soon after, his armor brass with hints of blue and splashes of red. His hair to his chin and untamed by any comb or helmet. The attractiveness appeals his eye and he follows him to the middle of the yard. The knight dismounts his horse and quickly jaunts to the free animal bucking about. He notices that the knight is tall--really tall. He towers over the maidens in the yard and is able to grab the wild horse by its bit instead of his lead. He watches as the knight brings it back to the previously thrown Lady and calms the animal down before returning it to her. The knight then extends a hand to the lady, lifting her up before taking a knee and kissing her delicate fingers. The lady blushes as the knight bows deeply and returns to his own horse. He watches as the knight rides his horse to the western stables. Once he is out of sight he glances at the lady only to see her swoon in the knight's wake. He slips back in to the water, somehow not as warm as before, and tries to relax. If he could be that knight, be as gallant and valiant as him... He can't bear to think about it. 

Choosing what to wear seems as difficult as deciding to go. He has two outfits for nice occasions--one is green with gold filigree, and the other is black with blue filagree. Both complement him quite nicely so the choice is impossible to make. He used to flip a coin, but as his last coin flip resulted in the copper to roll in to a hole in the floor, it's up to his own wits. He thinks briefly of the knight from earlier. His blue, brassy armor floating in to his head. He quickly snatches the black and blue one off of the mattress and begins to dress himself.

His hair requires a brief run of the brush and he's ready. The knight that visited him earlier did not give him a time, so he assumed it has already started. He looks one more time in his mirror before leaving. He stares at his reflection, unmoving.

"H-h--" he swallows. His throat is dry and cracked. He tries again.

"Hel--Hell--" he coughs. Tears form in his eyes as he chokes on his own words. When he looks back in the mirror all he can see is his beet red face and closed mouth. He curses inwardly and stands up, marching to and out his door--refusing to look at himself again.

The feast has already started--of course it has. The hall is filled with Lords, Knights and Ladies from all over the world. He slinks past all of them with the ease of a mouse before making it to the high table where his brother and sister-in-law sit. He climbs up the stone stairs and takes his empty seat next to his mother. She does not notice as he takes a sips of wine and begins to pick at his plate of food. It's not until he coughs politely that she turns and pats him on the shoulder. He takes that as welcome and smiles slightly. He then watches his mother whisper to his brother who looks down the table at him. They make brief eye contact, exchanging no pleasantries, before he stands up and rings his goblet for attention. The whole room turns towards their king and his chest puffs with pride.

"Hello all and thank you for coming." He booms across the room. Roaring applause ensues, "Now that my brother has finally made it here--" the King gestures toward him and the room breaks in to thunderous laughter. He looks out at the crowd and they're all looking at him. He smiles a bit, used to the ridicule, and waves a timid hand. As he glances around the room he notices something--someone who isn't laughing. He catches a glimpse of blue armor before an attendee hoists up a goblet, blocking his view. The laugher dies down as the King continues to speak. "Yes yes, he's a slow one. But now that he's here, I can give my important announcement." He looks over at his wife. She extends a hand up to him and he takes it. "We are with child!" The crowd takes to even more wild and crazy applause. Cheers are cried, hands are clapped, ale is toasted, and smiles are to be had all around the room. The youngest also smiles, as he should, and quickly scans the room once more. No brass gleams in his direction. His eyes go back to his brother and he decides to clap with them. Yes, what a joyous occasion--the chicken is very good and he wonders how rude it would be to cheer with a leg in hand. 

The celebration was loud and filling. He finds himself almost bursting near the middle and politely excuses himself--not that anyone notices. He leaves while his brother is hoisted up on a chair and carried around the room, taking advantage of the clear aisle space. There was a time when his brother paid him mind. When he was always around every corner, wanting to play. But now, as they enter their adult lives, the King has no need for an invalid brother. He would only serve as a burden during his brother's glorious rule. 

The walk back to his room is long, somehow longer than usual. The walls grow and grow and never shorten. The space around him somehow constricts and shrinks. He can feel the hallway get smaller and smaller, threatening to squish him with the massive weight of a thousand stones. His heart hammers in his throat. He tries to count the beats but they're too irregular to measure. The rhythm sticks in his chest, no longer feeling his breath. He silently wishes "May this day not be that day" and fades in to uncomfortable darkness.

\---

He is woke by nothing but the will of his person. He is in a bed--not his bed, surrounded by pillows and blankets he's never seen before. The side table houses multiple glasses of water, plates, and bowls that he certainly did not eat or drink from. He glances around and notices sunlight and drapery, things not found in the western wing. There's a stack of books next to him, toppled over on to the pillows. He picks one up and notices the small crow's feather sticking up from the top. 

"Does that happen often?" A voice says. He jumps an turns towards the noise. A man in a chair sits wide legged and unmoving in the far corner. His face set in shadow. His voice unrecognizable. He wears leather clothes with complicated patterns laced in the worn fabric; something someone of common lineage would have to pay a lifetime of earnings to get their hands on. His boots are those of thieves--black and halfway to his knee. The Lord grasps his book tighter, bringing it to his chest. The man leans forward, exposing the light stubble of his chin. 

"Does it?" The man continues. His voice has a strange emotion in it, one the young Lord can't place. It's kind and gentle, almost like his mothers when he was small. It would be comforting if he wasn't a mildly scared. 

The young Lord nods in response and looks down. He hears the man grunt in effort and walk towards him. The man stops at his side, moving a hand to the Lord's chin, tilting his face up to meet his. He can feel his long, delicate fingers slide smoothly along his skin. It sends shivers down his neck. When their eyes meet he must instantly avert them. The messy mane of the knight in the courtyard greets him. Without his armor he was not prepared to recognize him. His face was more beautiful than he could imagine--the angles of his cheeks cutting in to his eyes; the sharpness of his brow and his piercing gaze. He swallows. 

"Look at me." He says gently. When the Lord looks back his gaze is soft, questioning. "Why do you let them do that to you?" The lords brow furrows. The knight responds, "Why do you let them laugh at you?" 

His heart sinks. He has never questioned that before. It has always been so so it is always done. They laugh because he is laughable. Because he is unworthy of his title. Because he is useless. His heart aches in familiar ways. There has never been a question or a reason. It has also just been. He looks away from the beautiful knight in favor of the crow feather. So small, so insignificant--it will live its life to be in books. To never leave the comfort of a book. To be a slave to wherever it is put and serve him as a reminder of its place. 

"You may look away from me, Lord Kramer, but I still see you." The words of the knight hit the very inside of his soul. No one sees him. He is acknowledged, not noticed. He cannot bring himself to look back at the knight. He is not worthy of his kind words and his polite phrases. It is all a lie. He is the youngest Kramer, the Kramer that does not exist. 

He feels those delicate fingers encase his face, both cheeks wrapped in an cocoon of warm hands. He allows his face to be lifted back up to meet the knight--he's somehow more dazzling than before. The young lord feels the knights beating heart through his palm. It's so healthy and strong. He leans in to it without thought. 

"Tell me your name." The knight pleads, his almond eyes speaking volumes beyond his words. The Lord stops. What is his name? It has been so long since someone has asked him. He has not spoken it, no one has uttered it... He takes a long swallow, concentrates on the sound an cadance of his own title. 

"Barthol-- Bartholm--" he gives up before quickly spouting, "Barry." It comes out as a whisper so quiet he's afraid the knight could not have heard him. To his surprise he smiles down at him, whispering back. 

"Daniel." His response dripping with sincerity, "But I would be very grateful if you just used Dan." With that carefree smile, he was afraid his heart would never beat again.


End file.
